


The Sky Is So Deep

by brassbranch



Category: South Park
Genre: Agender Character, Aliens, Ambiguous Relationships, Friendship/Love, Other, Trans Character, high school au I guess, ufo spotting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 17:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6059127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brassbranch/pseuds/brassbranch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s eleven at night when Craig’s phone buzzes on the nightstand beside the bed."</p><p> </p><p>late night walks, UFO spotting, talks about the future</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sky Is So Deep

**Author's Note:**

> it felt like a good time to revisit an old ship by way of soft aesthetic bullshit fic with gender headcanons and ambiguous relationships, so here's that: agender craig, ftm tweek

-

-

It’s eleven at night when Craig’s phone buzzes on the nightstand beside the bed. They grope for it, not yet sleeping, not even trying to sleep, just lying flat on their back in the dark and thinking, and press the home button. The light of the screen illuminates the immediate area, a halo around their head and shoulders, the space on the wall behind the headboard that never sees the light of day and has a message from Clyde still scraped into the paint hidden behind it, seven years old and collecting dust.

_ hey _ , the received text says,  _ are you still up? _

It’s from Tweek, and although the letters are uniform in steady lowercase, just the one piece of punctuation tacked on at the end, Craig reads the words with Tweek’s intonation, knowing how his voice would scratch over the specific set of sounds from hearing them whispered verbatim across shared floor space at sleepovers.

_ Yeah _ , Craig texts back, and even if they had been asleep, the phone would have woken them up like it usually does, like it always seems to when Tweek texts them at midnight, at three in the morning, at half past five and they’re both supposed to be getting up for school soon but Tweek never really went to sleep and only just realized he doesn’t know what to wear for picture day so he won’t look like a complete jackass in the yearbook.

Craig’s been getting less and less of those texts lately, and that’s a good thing. It means more sleep for both of them, means Tweek’s most recent mix of antidepressants and hormones and therapy sessions and meditation breaks are working for him.

Craig only waits a second, not long enough for second guessing on the other end, to follow with,  _ What’s up _ ?

They roll onto their stomach, still half-dressed and considering whether they’re motivated enough to brush their teeth before actually going to bed, and waits for Tweek’s answer. It comes two minutes later, in pieces.

_ nthing really _

_ nothing* what about you? _

Craig gets up onto their elbows, then fully upright, sitting in the middle of the bed and holding the phone higher so they won’t hunch their shoulders and make them ache like they keep accidentally doing.

_ Just lying around. Thinking. _

And Craig knows that Tweek will understand this, won’t pry in that slightly concerned way that Token sometimes does when Craig gives him vague answers, won’t try to distract them from some imagined point of tension the way Jimmy tends to. Tweek knows the difference between thinking and  _ thinking _ , the deep and dark and suffocating kind that can happen when ideas mix with worries and turn into something sticky and weighted and troublesome. Tweek knows that Craig is upfront, even about these things. If something were bothering them, they’d say so.

Craig thinks to follow up with a text about how just now, specifically, they were thinking about how much they like being able to trust Tweek with that kind of discretion, how nice it is to have someone like him in their life, to have Tweek at all. But those kinds of sentiments are things that Craig is slightly less up front about. Instead, they ask,

_ Bad night? _

Because generally speaking, if Tweek is texting past ten there’s something bugging him. And it might not be a big deal or it might be the biggest deal yet, might be a panic attack in the making or just a question about the homework for the math class they share. He might be wired and pacing the floor or already drifting off with his phone in his hand.

_ no it’s alright _ , is the answer,  _ i’m good just like restless _

Craig sits on that one for a minute. They are rarely restless.

_ are you gonna be up a while?  _ Tweek asks, and with that Craig is undoubtedly awake.

_ Sure _ , Craig says, and follows with  _ Want me to come over? _ at the same time that Tweek asks,

_ do you wanna go for a walk? it’s really nice out _

And then Tweek says  _ lol _ even though Craig knows damn well he doesn’t laugh out loud for anything less than Jimmy’s best and crudest song parodies or really good dog videos.

Craig imagines Tweek’s muffled, snickering laugh instead, and is smiling before they know their mouth will even do it, and then Tweek is texting them again,

_ i’m already on a walk i mean i’m right outside your house _

_ jesus that sounds creepier than i meant it to sorry!! _

Craig gets up off the bed and crosses to the window, looking down to see the yard empty but for the usual snow drifts around the deck. Front yard, then. Less secretive and dramatic, so, better.

_ you don’t have to come with i just figured i’d ask since i’m over here _ , Tweek continues, and Craig pauses to send a response before digging a pair of sneakers out from under the bed.

_ I’ll be right out. _ They say, and from there it’s ten seconds to tug the already-tied shoes on, another ten to pull on their coat and stash their phone in the pocket. They step quietly down the stairs and when they see the television in the living room still on, their mother curled up on the couch and looking skeptically at a made for TV movie, Craig takes the last few steps more heavily so it doesn’t look like they’re sneaking anywhere.

She glances over, eyebrows raised, and Craig nods in the general direction of the outdoors.

“Going to look at the sky,” They say by way of explanation, and that flies with her. It’s the first clear night in a week, and this isn’t the first time Craig’s wandered out into the middle of the street with the excuse of staring at stars, “With Tweek.”

They don’t need to add that last part, and aren't really sure why they bother to. Maybe because it sounds safer for a teenager to be wandering around at night with a friend rather than alone, or because it’s a good start for an alibi in case anyone comes looking for them and wants to know how looking at the sky turned into walking a full neighborhood away, or just because it’s strangely satisfying to say out loud.

Craig shrugs then, dismissive of their own admission, just being honest for the sake of honesty, and their mom says, barely a warning, “Don’t be out too long.”

And with that Craig is tugging their hat down more securely over their ears, stepping outside and raising a hand to greet Tweek, who is standing beside the mailbox and shifting his weight from one foot to the other uncertainly, as if stepping further on to the Tucker property might trip some kind of alarm.

Craig walks over a thin coating of fresh snow along the walkway, footsteps crunching loudly in the quiet of the night, and wonders when it got there. They didn’t see any flurries earlier, and now the sky is surprisingly clear and dark, the stars looking brighter than usual, and they remember Tweek speaking frantically during gym once in sixth grade, his voice hushed and his eyes wide in worry.

_ “When does it snow?” _ He’d asked, tone shifting to something panicked and accusatory, and before Craig could respond with the standard ‘every goddamn day in this town,’ Tweek was already rushing on, saying,  _ “There’s always snow on the ground but I never  _ see _ it snowing! They forecast it, right? On the news? And it shows up. But, god, where’s it coming from? When does it happen? How do we keep missing it?” _

Craig had thought then, thinks now, that he has a point. They can’t remember the last time they actually watched a snowflake drift down from the sky. They can’t remember ever having sideways windblown snow catch in their eyelashes or slip down their coat collar. They just know what it’s like to wake up and find snow covering the lawn outside, to leave class at the end of the day and blink into the uncomfortable reflection of cloud-filtered light off fresh piles of snow.

Tweek is probably right to question the snow. He’s right about a lot of things. Not everything, but a lot of things.

Tweek doesn’t comment on the snow tonight. The first thing he says is, “You’re in pajama pants.”

“Yup,” Craig agrees, and notes that Tweek is not. He’s never been good with sleeping clothes, since he’s never been good with sleep, and the jeans he’s wearing are probably the same ones he wore all day at school. Thinking about being constricted by denim for that long makes Craig feel stiff and itchy even in loose flannel pants, but they say nothing. Tweek at least had the decency to put on a sweatshirt to come out tonight, and Craig is glad for that. They’re not the type to offer to share their coat. Tweek isn’t the type to ask them to.

They stand together for a moment at the mailbox, as if reconfiguring, calculating their own mental GPS guided route, and then set off down the street at a leisurely stroll, no destination agreed upon.

Tweek’s hands are balled up in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, gloveless as usual, but once the two of them are in motion, headed toward, if Craig had to guess, Stark’s pond, since everyone always seems to end up over there, he shakes one free of the pocket and extends it in offering.

It’s a habit, mostly. Craig takes it in their own bare hand, leaving their gloves to sit pointlessly in their coat pockets. It isn’t that cold out really, more cool and still than anything, like the inside of a fridge instead of the side of a mountain, and the chill doesn’t feel entirely bad on their skin. Tweek’s fingers, intertwined with Craig’s own, are warm.

“How many layers are you wearing?” Craig asks, curious. Their own arms are just a little cold under their coat, the t-shirt sleeves underneath not really up to the job.

“Oh man, ah—“ Tweek bites at his top lip as he considers, tips his head with each counted layer, “Four? No, three. I had to take my binder off already, it was driving me up the wall and then I kinda got stuck and freaked out but, nngh, it was okay, I got unstuck. Eventually.” He twitches slightly, buries the motion in the bulkiness of his sweatshirt.

Craig hums uncertainly, not sure if that counts as a layer of warm clothing or not anyway.

“But then I fell asleep for like, twenty minutes before dinner,” Tweek explains, unprompted, gaze fixed forward, “And now I can’t sleep at all.”

Craig nods in understanding, makes a vague noise of approval in case Tweek didn’t see it

“Plus I keep thinking of how I’m going to miss something since there’s no cloud cover tonight and, you know.”

Craig does know. Clear nights are good for more than just stargazing, even if that is Craig’s preferred way to spend them. Clear nights are almost guaranteed UFO spotting nights, and Tweek is always eager to catch a glimpse of the Visitors.

He explained it once, his interest in watching for alien crafts over their messed up little town, leaning across the front counter of his parent’s coffee shop while Craig’s hands got too warm around a cardboard cup of hot chocolate.

_ “Everybody sees this stuff, _ ” He’d said, quietly at first, secretive, but getting louder, his voice cracking,  _ “Not just me! Everybody’s got a Visitors story— It’s like a, jeez I don’t know, a sure thing out here. Like giant robot monsters and ghosts and stuff.” _

And Craig gets it, kind of. Tweek likes the sense of community he gets from sharing an experience with the rest of their town. He really, really likes the validation that something weird he’s seen isn’t just his imagination. And it’s true, everybody does have a Visitors story. Craig’s sure as hell seen aliens lurking around their backyard on summer nights, has felt things watching them as they take the garbage out to the curb, has been through enough bullshit international trips and dimensional shifts to know all that paranormal stuff is real, that it actually happens.

Craig doesn’t think anyone doubts Tweek’s own stories, honestly, except for maybe the ones about people plotting to kill him, but hey, whatever makes him feel better. They’ll gladly go UFO spotting with Tweek any night of the week if it makes him happy. Or, any night of the week that there isn’t something good on TV anyway.

The thought of television reminds Craig of their phone, sitting heavy in their pocket, and they reach for it to check the battery life in case they need to film some lights overhead or suspicious shadows between the trees, but there’s an unread message waiting  before they even unlock the phone. It’s from Tweek, from before, unnoticed as Craig left the house and ignored till now.

It says,  _ cool :)  _ and the stupid little smiley face makes Craig feel something ridiculous and fluttery in the pit of their stomach. They shove the phone back in their pocket, squeezing Tweek’s hand tighter, and the small motion grabs his attention. Tweek looks to Craig, smiling more lopsidedly than his text version, a little confused and a little concerned, and Craig almost smiles back.

They end up walking to Stark’s pond. Tweek mentions something about the magnetic pull of the water there, then backtracks, saying he’s probably talked about that before and Craig won’t want to hear it again, but Craig encourages him to retell it. Craig likes retold stories, how they’re familiar, how they change a little in every retelling. They like hearing Tweek tell stories that were once scattered and frantic and distraught but have, over time, turned to good, solid reminiscing, just a bunch of weird childhood memories and morbid jokes to share again and again.

So Tweek tells Craig about how Stark’s pond is a magnet, and how there’s still a rift somewhere downtown where you can sometimes catch a glimpse of a horrifying dark dimension, and explains why he never wanted to build snowmen as a kid, and why he stopped hanging out with Stan and those guys back then.

That last story gets better every time Craig hears it. Their stomach does the weird stupid fluttery thing whenever Tweek talks about threatening Steven Spielberg with a rocket launcher. They’re always, immediately, a little jealous.

Sitting on the flat side of a rock that’s just big enough to fit one and a half of them, Craig presses their shoulder to Tweek’s, letting go of his hand as their fingers start to get numb. They each hide their hands away in their respective pockets, but keep close, heads tipped together and looking upward, slightly, just in case any of the lights overhead move.

Craig tells Tweek, again, about the time they got swindled out of their birthday money and dragged to Peru by those assholes, and Tweek knows exactly which assholes they’re talking about, could probably tell the story himself and make a chart displaying an estimate of how far back Craig’s Peruvian heritage runs after hearing about it all so many times, but he still grins when Craig talks about walking out of an ancient ruin without looking back at the four dipshits who got them all stuck there.

Something moves in the woods and it isn’t a Visitor, might be a sasquatch or a velociraptor or worse, somebody from town, and Tweek stiffens with fear at Craig’s side.

“Oh jesus,” He breathes, and breaks off into a nervous laugh as the moving thing moves  _ up _ , rustling leaves and snapping twigs as it goes. It’s probably a squirrel. Probably, “Have you, uh, tried doing the laser thing lately?”

When he turns to look Craig in the non-glowing eyes his hair brushes Craig’s cheek, soft and chilled from the night air.

“Nah,” Craig answers, and pulls their phone free of their pocket because they want a distraction; from the sound in the woods and the memory of channeling a cosmic power and the tickle of Tweek’s hair on their skin. The unread message from earlier is opened and closed again in two quick swipes of Craig’s thumb, just in time for another text to come through. 

It’s Craig’s mom,

_ It’s getting late. _

Craig glances up at the time display on their phone, tells Tweek, “It’s almost midnight.”

Tweek jumps a little, says, “Oh shit, really?” Like he’s honestly surprised at how late it’s gotten, like he has no concept of time. He leans away from Craig and begins climbing down from their shared rock, rubbing the feeling back into his thighs once he’s standing, “I wasn’t thinking,” He says, “I forgot it was already late- jeez, sorry.”

Craig shrugs, assures him, “I don’t care,” and  _ mind _ is what they mean, they don’t  _ mind _ , but for some reason those phrases turn interchangeable in Craig’s head and when the words come out they sound disinterested, “If it doesn’t suck outside on Friday we should do this again.”

On a Friday Craig’s mom wouldn’t text a reminder because there’d be no school in the morning, and she’d go to bed before Craig ever came home and would pretend to be asleep when the front door squeaked open in the early morning, as if she wasn’t waiting up to make sure her oldest child got home safe.

On a Friday Craig could make sure their phone was fully charged, and Tweek could bring an extra large coffee that’d get cold too fast, and maybe there’d be a few jerks from school hanging around too, or maybe their friends might actually come along even though the Visitors kind of freak Clyde out, and that’d be an okay way to spend a night. Tweek could still hold Craig’s hand the way he always does.

“Oh,” Tweek says, and smiles like he’s been caught off guard, “Ah, yeah, that’d be cool,” He’s got his arms folded over his chest self consciously, and for a moment Craig thinks maybe they won’t hold hands on the walk home after all, but once they’re both off the rock and ready to make the trip back to their respective houses, Tweek’s right hand is curiously free and Craig’s left one reaches for it in the dark, finds it as easy as if there were a magnet in each of their palms.

Tweek sucks in a breath quick, startled, but if he’s seen or heard or thought of something that frightens him, he doesn’t mention it.

 

Craig texts their mom one-handed to say they’re on their way back, holds onto the phone as they walk with Tweek toward home.

They both keep an eye out for signs of alien life on the way back, but if they’re being honest the moment is gone. The topic of conversation drifts from mysterious things that have happened around town in the past to perfectly normal things that are happening now. They talk about the girl in the grade below them who got caught smuggling a ferret into school on Monday, and that leads to a conversation about which small animals make the best pets (Craig is admittedly biased,) and then Tweek is debating himself on the logistics of small dogs versus big dogs.

“Small dogs are cute,” He says, “But I’d be scared of losing one in a crowd or under the couch or something. But then, big dogs are kind of overwhelming, even if they are harder to lose track of. I guess a medium sized dog is best? But what does “medium” even mean? That’s- I just-  There’s a pretty wide range of dog sizes in the world, is all.”

Craig shrugs, says, “I guess it depends on what kind of dog you want.”

Tweek considers, shakes his head, “I couldn’t choose,” He insists, looking at Craig somewhat frantically as they cross into residential territory again, “I’d just have to see what dogs were in the shelter and then pick one. Or two. God, I don’t know if I could handle two!”

“Start with one,” Craig agrees, and looks both ways before crossing the busiest street in their neighborhood, more out of habit than necessity this late at night.

Tweek looks furtively over his shoulder, not trusting a car not to materialize out of thin air and run them down. When they’re back on sidewalk he says, “Yeah. Yeah I probably will. I definitely want a shelter dog though. It doesn’t have to be a puppy, right?”

And he looks to Craig, waiting for agreement, as if Craig’s opinion matters on this imaginary future dog, like they’ll both be sharing space with it, with each other.

Craig thinks about living with Tweek, for real, like adults do when they go out and start their own lives away from their parents, and they can hear their pulse in their ears. The things Tweek isn’t saying are more exciting, are scarier, than aliens, than lasers coming out of your eyes.

“Nah,” Craig says, and then gives Tweek’s hand a gentle tug, getting his attention. Because while Tweek was looking at Craig and Craig was looking straight ahead and thinking about possible futures, something large and sleek and silver eased into place over the empty house on their street, shaking the tops of the nearest pine trees and the ‘for sale’ sign in the front yard with its sudden appearance.

Tweek looks up, makes a small, strangled sound, and watches the craft with wide eyes. 

Craig watches too, lifting their phone up and opening the camera app to try to get a decent shot. The ship moves too fast though, rotating where it hovers before zipping to the left, then up and away, out of sight in the time it takes for Craig to snap a handful of pictures.

“Oh man,” Tweek says, hushed, but he doesn’t sound afraid, just amazed, “Did you see that? Of course you saw it, you’re right here, it was  _ right _ here-”

“I saw it,” Craig confirms anyway.

Tweek is visibly pleased at the sighting, looks relieved as he shakes his left hand free of his pocket and rakes his fingers back through his hair, not pulling, just ruffling it.

“Oh my god,” He’s saying, still looking up at the sky as they walk along toward Craig’s house, “That was wild- a whole ship! I can’t believe it. You have to tell me about it tomorrow so I know I didn’t just dream it. If I sleep, I mean. Aghh- tell me anyway, just to be sure.”

“Sure,” Craig agrees, and Tweek grins.

 

When they reach the Tucker’s mailbox Craig slides his fingers free from Tweek’s, holds their phone with both hands instead.

“See you tomorrow,” Tweek says, almost a question, then definitely a question, “Or, today? What time is it?”

“12:18,” Craig reads aloud, and Tweek groans, drags a hand down his face.

“I’ve gotta get home,” He says, as if Craig couldn’t have already guessed, “G’night.”

Craig waves goodbye, distracted, a part of their brain counting out how many hours of sleep will fit between now and the time the school bus comes, another part thinking that Tweek shed a lot and dogs shed a lot and they’d have to vacuum a lot if they lived together, but that they wouldn’t mind. They watch Tweek take off down the street, turning at the corner that’ll take him to his house, then walks up the path to their own home and heads inside.

The television is off but Craig can hear their mom upstairs, pretending to have already been in bed. Once they’re back in their room, out of their coat and beaten up sneakers and sprawled on top of their bed once more, they review the pictures they took.

There are two that are too dark and blurred to be good for anything, three that are passable, very similar. Each of them shows the UFO at a slightly different point in the sky, its lights stretched into swathes of color by the two-slow camera. One has Tweek in it accidentally. 

As Craig’s eyelids begin to feel heavy their phone buzzes, complaining of low power as they unlock the screen to view a text from Tweek,

_ got home without being abducted _

Which might be a joke, but then again not. Either way, they respond,  _ Good. _

The phone buzzes again, hardly a second’s pause between texts sent and received.

_ and thanks for coming with me :) _

Craig stares at the smiley face, mirrors it with their own expression.

_ No problem. _

Neither of them texts goodnight. There’s no telling when either of them may or may not go to bed anyway.

Lying flat on their back in the dark, still not sleeping, Craig considers the UFO pictures again. They flip back and forth between the two most similar ones, comparing compositions before deleting the less interesting shot. 

Even though it’s kind of blurry, they keep the picture of Tweek.

 

-

-


End file.
